Did archaic poets present themselves as professionals – that is, those who regularly practised a specialist skill (τέχνη) as their main occupation with the implicit or explicit aim of obtaining material rewards? The most common view is that early poets largely defined themselves as amateurs, who addressed, identified with and, it is often inferred, belonged to an exclusive elite group.Footnote 1 Though not averse to receiving occasional prizes and gifts of hospitality, it is believed that poetry was at this stage neither their primary occupation, nor their principal source of income or identity. Ewen Bowie has restated this conception of the early poet in two recent articles, in which he characterises the seventh- and sixth-century performer as ‘a species within the genus “member of a local elite”’.Footnote 2 In what follows, I suggest that while early poets certainly identify themselves as part of this elite, they can also claim a special status within that group. This status is defined by a rare ability or wisdom that entitles the poet to good treatment and rewards. Membership, or aspirations to membership, of an elite need not rule out the possibility of professionalism: rather both form part of the identity of the archaic Greek poet.
According to the traditional view, poetry only became a profession gradually over time. The archaic period is often seen as a period of change and transition, in which the aristocracy gradually declined in power and influence. The introduction of coinage from the sixth century is believed to have created a new middling class, who began to encroach on the power and privileges of the traditional aristocracy.Footnote 3 Kurke has argued that coinage, unlike the traditional system of reciprocal gift-exchange favoured by the elite, ‘threatens the distinction of nobility because anyone can have money and anyone can give money to anyone else’.Footnote 4 The production of poetry, it is believed, changed with society, as the professional steadily replaced the noble amateur. In time, poetry was no longer exchanged between equals but ‘became a commercial good available to the one who could pay for it’.Footnote 5 This commodification of poetry, together with the transformation of the poet's art into a specialist occupation by which he might earn a living, is often regarded as professionalisation.
Yet there is no consensus on when professionalism became common among poets. Many scholars, including Bowie, accept that the Odyssey contains depictions of poets who, like the historical rhapsodes, may be labelled ‘specialist craftsmen’ or even ‘professionals'.Footnote 6 And yet the development of professionalism is most frequently connected with the final decades of the sixth and the first decade of the fifth century, roughly corresponding to the career of Simonides.Footnote 7 Ibycus, who belonged to the previous generation, and Anacreon, whose career overlapped with that of Simonides, are also cited as examples of early professional court poets.Footnote 8 According to this view, it was the poets of the late seventh and early sixth centuries, notably Solon and probably Theognis, who were the last true aristocratic amateurs, while Simonides and his younger contemporary Pindar may be understood as the first true professionals.Footnote 9 Bowie, however, has questioned whether any significant change took place in the relationship between poet and patron between 550 and 450, suggesting that even as late as the 470s, near the end of Simonides’ lifetime, the poet's relationship with his audience was characterised primarily by guest-friendship (ξενία), rather than patronage.Footnote 10 Similarly other scholars have seen the development of professionalism as an event connected to the New Music of the late fifth century.Footnote 11 This view also links the emergence of the professional performer with the declining influence of the aristocracy, but focuses instead on the supposed culmination of this process, in Athens at least, a century later.Footnote 12
In what follows, I argue that there are in fact more signs of continuity than change in the archaic period, as poets routinely allude to what may be described as a ‘professional ideology’. Yet what do we mean by professionalism? For both sociologists and modern professionals the word has a complex meaning and indeed it has proved nearly impossible to develop an all-encompassing definition. Part of the difficulty is that society tends to grant professionals a status above manual work or trade, often marked by special privileges.Footnote 13 Individual professions are therefore continually under pressure to justify and assert these privileges in competition with other groups of skilled practitioners. This in turn can lead to widely differing and often deliberately exclusive definitions.Footnote 14 Nevertheless, some common features may be delineated.Footnote 15 Most importantly, professionals can be distinguished from amateurs through the practice of a specialist skill as their sole or main occupation. A tendency towards a ‘division of labour’, as termed by Adam Smith, is due to the fact that specialisation increases both the efficiency and proficiency of the practitioner.Footnote 16 Certain specialists can thus become valuable assets in the community and may lay claim to special status and rewards. Specialist skill, however, is only the basic requirement for an occupation to be classed as a profession.Footnote 17 Differing levels of training distinguish the unskilled or semi-skilled labourer from the professional. As a result of this training, professionals will often hold a collective identity, defined by common levels of competence, as a separate and exclusive group within society. They may (though not always) develop organisations to better promote the interests of the group, enhance its shared identity, maintain standards and restrict membership of the group to those of proven ability.
It used to be commonly assumed that professionalism, as outlined above, was a modern phenomenon that appeared only after the Industrial Revolution.Footnote 18 ‘The rise of professionalism’ is thus as much a cliché of histories of the modern world as of the ancient. In both cases, scholars have supposed that professions emerged in response to an economic development: on the one hand, the invention of coinage, on the other industrialisation. Both have tended to distinguish the new professionals from earlier practitioners, who appear either as aristocrats or a parasitic sub-set of the aristocracy dependent on the gentry for their living. The assumption that the Industrial Revolution marked the birth of professions has, however, been steadily demolished over the past three decades, particularly by historians of early-modern England.Footnote 19
By contrast, there is as yet no detailed study of professionalism in the ancient world. Part of the reason may be that scholars are understandably wary of employing a modern term that has no exact parallel in Greek or Latin. Other differences between modern and ancient societies are far from negligible. The numbers of professionals in a given society will increase with economic growth, as the market for their services is enlarged. Professions also increase in complexity over time in line with technological advancement. However, the difference is largely quantitative, rather than qualitative: medicine, for example, was as much a specialist occupation in the ancient as in the modern world. From the Late Bronze Age, for example, skilled doctors, especially those from Egypt and Babylon, were so highly in demand that they were regularly imported to Hatti and other kingdoms and even, on occasion, detained there against their will.Footnote 20 The principal difference is that modern medicine encompasses within it numerous specialist disciplines, since medical knowledge has progressed to such an extent that the individual cannot be expected to attain equal mastery over every branch of expertise. Yet specialist skills and occupations are generally found in all societies, regardless of their level of industrialisation.Footnote 21 The point at issue is thus not whether or to what extent ancient skilled labour resembled modern professions; rather it is how forms of specialist skill affected the identity and status of workers in antiquity.
The evidence for archaic poets is incomplete, meaning that we cannot assume that the same notion of ‘poetic professionalism’ was universally adopted or adhered to throughout this period. Nevertheless, for the same reason, an argument against early professionalism from silence can never be entirely convincing either. Poets present themselves in a variety of guises and no one period is defined exclusively by one form of performer. The narrative of a ‘rise’ of professionalism is thus too simplistic. While Bowie's characterisation of the archaic poet as ‘member of the local elite’ is not strictly inaccurate, it is overly narrow, not least since the poet's admission to that very elite may depend partly or entirely on professional skill.
Professional identity
‘Singers’ (ἀοιδοί) appear as a recognisable and distinct group in the Odyssey. Penelope identifies Phemius as a member of this group, who knows the stories celebrated by singers (τά τε κλείουσιν ἀοιδοί, Od. 1.338).Footnote 22 A basic knowledge of a subject or skill need not on its own suggest professionalism. Achilles in the Iliad is capable of singing of the glorious deeds of men (ἄειδε δ’ ἄρα κλέα ἀνδρῶν, 9.189). He accompanies himself upon the phorminx, the same instrument employed by Phemius (Od. 1.155), just as Paris is supposed to be skilled with the citharis (Il. 3.54). Yet though Achilles may sing (ἄειδε), he is nowhere described as a ‘singer’ (ἀοιδός). Similarly, although the women of Troy play a part in the lament for Hector, they are contrasted with the aoidoi who are brought to the funeral as the leaders of the dirge (ἀοιδοὺς | θρήνων ἐξάρχους, Il. 24.720–1). Odysseus is twice compared to a singer because of his ability to create stories that charm his listeners; yet this comparison is only effective because Odysseus is not a singer.Footnote 23 In fact, no one termed a singer in epic fulfils any other role or appears for any other purpose than to sing, and singers are never mentioned without reference to their craft. Phemius is compelled to sing for the suitors (Od. 1.153–4); Demodocus is called to sing for the Phaeacians (8.43–5); Menelaus has a singer perform at his daughter's wedding (4.17); a singer who gives pleasure with his song can even be called from abroad (17.385).Footnote 24
A crucial difference is that, while amateurs may perform, recognised aoidoi lay claim to special knowledge and understanding from the Muses that allows them to compose.Footnote 25 Detailed information about past events, such as the names and number of the heroes at Troy, is beyond the ken of ordinary mortals, but is known to the divine Muses (Il. 2.484–93). This knowledge, coming as it does from the god, allows poets to claim a special status in the community. Odysseus states that poets as a group are worthy of honour (τιμῆς ἔμμοροι, Od. 8.480) because they are taught by the muse (οἴμας Μοῦσ’ ἐδίδαξε, φίλησε δὲ φῦλον ἀοιδῶν, 8.481).
Maslov has argued that the term aoidos is rarely used to mean ‘poet-composer’ outside hexameter poetry; elsewhere it may denote merely singers, either solo or in a chorus.Footnote 26 The exceptions are when it is applied to mythical or semi-mythical poets.Footnote 27 Crucially melic poets do not refer to themselves as aoidoi. However, we need not assume that these poets lacked a ‘collective self-consciousness’.Footnote 28 This appears to have been grounded not in a collective term but rather, as with the mythical aoidoi, in their status as recipients of the divine wisdom of the Muses. Ibycus echoes Homer when he states that, while no man may catalogue the ships at Troy, this is within the competence of the Muses in their wisdom (Μοίσαι σεσοφι[σ]μέναι, S151.23 PMGF). Theognis similarly lays claim to special wisdom (σοφιζομένῳ μὲν ἐμοί, 19) in the placing of his seal. In another passage from the Theognidea (769–72), the servant of the Muses is credited with unique understanding (μοῦνος ἐπιστάμενος, 772), which should be shared with others less fortunate. The speaker of another passage (1055–8) claims that he and his companion, who accompanies him on the aulos, have been granted gifts by the Muses. Although not certainly by Theognis, these lines illustrate a view of both the source and purpose of the genre of didactic poetry: an outpouring of divine wisdom through chosen individuals.
For Solon, it is the patronage of the Muses and the special understanding they grant that define the poet and distinguish him from those who practise other occupations:
another man, taught gifts by the Muses of Olympia, understanding the measure of longed-for wisdom.
(fr. 13.51–2 West)Poets are not alone in receiving divine favour: Hesiod states that poets are from the Muses, as kings come from Zeus.Footnote 29 Each is differentiated by their patron gods, suggesting that each has a separate role in society. Yet poets are also keen to show their skills may have wider applicability, and thus conceivably still greater value. To Hesiod, the Muses are especially worthy of honour, since, while they are the patrons of poets, they may also grant kings the gift of speech in their particular field: judging cases in the law courts. Archilochus similarly claims to both understand the gift of the Muses (Μουσέων ἐρατὸν δῶρον ἐπιστάμενος, fr. 1.2 West) and to act as a servant of the god of war. Like Solon and Hesiod, he distinguishes two normally separate practices by their patron deities. His particular achievement is to be proficient in both. As in Homer, special knowledge forms the basis of a claim to special status in society. Xenophanes (fr. 2.11–14 West) in the sixth century claims to deserve the same honours and rewards as athletes on the basis of his wisdom (σοφίη).
The attribution of the poet's ability to the Muses partly conceals the extent to which poetry, and the values it instilled, was part of the general education of the elite. Theognis mentions that he also in his youth learned the wisdom he imparts to Cyrnus from other good men:
I will bestow on you in my wisdom those things that I myself, Cyrnus, learned from good men when I was still a boy.
(27–8)As Ford has argued, the Theognidea codifies the set standards of the agathoi as a whole and, in the process, confirms the poet's status as part of this group.Footnote 30 Yet the poet also makes it clear that its membership is limited and defined not by wealth (for the wealthy are frequently bad) but by moral excellence (ἀρετή):
God gives riches even to a man who is entirely bad, Cyrnus, but few men have a share of excellence.
(149–50)The young man must take care, therefore, to select teachers who can impart to him the wisdom not of society at large or a defined economic class, but of those few who know what is good and bad.
Within this moral aristocracy, Theognis presents himself, like the servant of the Muses, as having personal wisdom (σοφιζομένῳ μὲν ἐμοί, 19). The seal (19–26) both attaches this wisdom to his name and affirms that it is worthy of universal fame (πάντας δὲ κατ’ ἀνθρώπους ὀνομαστός, 22). While his teachings are not strictly original, his knowledge of excellence is special, even exceptional. Similarly, the professional poet is important not in being a performer but as a teacher and leader of the performance. Archilochus claims to know not how to join in the dithyramb, but how to lead it (ὡς Διωνύσου ἄνακτος καλὸν ἐξάρξαι μέλος | οἶδα, fr. 121 West; cf. αὐτὸς ἐξάρχων πρὸς αὐλὸν Λέσβιον παιήονα, fr. 122). While the position of leader is not necessarily the mark of a professional, it is one assumed by specialist singers (Il. 24.720–1) and acrobats (Il. 18.606; Od. 4.18–19) in Homer. The poet has a special status in society not as sole practitioner of his art, but as an expert.
In addition to developing a distinct identity, some skilled workers are known to have created the equivalent of professional organisations from as early as the archaic period. The singers who labelled themselves the Homeridae were an established group by the sixth century on Chios. They appear to have been a collective body of poetic performers, united both by a common practice and by a claim to descent from the legendary master Homer.Footnote 31 Another form of association may have existed on Lesbos and, if so, it possibly promoted the memory of Terpander in order to gain special privileges for Lesbian citharodes, who claimed to be his descendents at the Spartan Carneia.Footnote 32 Similar groups include bodies of doctors and seers, who also shared a specialist skill and purported to be organised, at least orginally, on family lines.Footnote 33 Unlike the later guilds of the Hellenistic and Roman periods, such groups were few in number and membership of associations does not seem to have been widespread. However, the appeal to status on the basis of shared descent from a legendary master mirrors, and can be seen as a development of, the general claim that poets act as servants of the Muses. Moreover, recognition by these organisations may have been highly valued by non-members. By the fifth century, the rhapsode Ion could aspire to receive from the Homeridae the public gift of a crown in recognition of his achievements (Pl. Ion 530d7–8).
The poet's art
Was this divine gift, which formed the basis of the poet's identity, seen as a skill? Was training or regular practice required to obtain it? In early epic, the art of a poet, unlike handicrafts, is not specifically termed a skill (τέχνη).Footnote 34 The one early exception is the Hymn to Hermes, where τέχνη is applied to the art of the cithara and the pipes.Footnote 35 By comparison, craft metaphors for poetry are relatively common in Pindar.Footnote 36 This prompted Svenbro and others to argue that the concept of the poet as a craftsman was a later innovation, linked to a ‘secularisation’ of poetry in which skill superseded divine inspiration.Footnote 37
However, as Murray demonstrated, a strict dichotomy between skill and inspiration was not universally recognised or accepted in the archaic period.Footnote 38 Furthermore, artisanal skills are, like the inspiration of the Muses, divine gifts. The metal-worker in early epic learns his skill from Hephaestus and Athena (ὃν Ἥφαιστος δέδαεν καὶ Παλλὰς Ἀθήνη | τέχνην παντοίην, Od. 6.233–4).Footnote 39 In addition, early poets are also equated with craftsmen. Solon juxtaposes the poet who has learned the gifts of the Muse with the pupil of Athena and ‘much skilled’ Hephaestus (Ἀθηναίης τε καὶ Ἡφαίστου πολυτέχνεω | ἔργα δαείς, fr. 13.49–50 West). Eumaeus similarly includes the singer in the category of foreign ‘public workers’ (δημιοεργοί):
… a prophet or healer of evils or joiner of beams, or even an inspired minstrel, who gives delight with his singing. For these men are summoned by mortals on the wide earth.
(Od. 17.384–6)The specialist nature of these skills is demonstrated by the fact that these craftsmen are called (κλητοί) from abroad. Not every community can be expected to have either a skilled carpenter or a skilled poet; yet their services are widely in demand, hence their role as ‘public workers’.Footnote 40
The poet's σοφία (‘wisdom’) is not only comparable, but even superior, to other skills. While Solon claimed that poets understood the measure of skill or wisdom in general (σοφίης μέτρον, fr. 13.52), Hesiod had initially suggested a limit to this wisdom by stating that he was not an expert (σεσοφισμένος, Op. 649) in seafaring. This craft is termed both σοφίη (Il. 15.412; cf. Archil. fr. 211) and τέχνη (Il. 3.61) in Homer. However, Hesiod continues nonetheless to offer advice on this very topic: for the Muses have taught him to sing (Μοῦσαι γάρ μ’ ἐδίδαξαν ἀθέσφατον ὕμνον ἀείδειν, Op. 661). The inspiration of the Muses grants not only a particular form of expertise (the ability to sing) but also the authority to discuss any other skill. This claim to superiority, while common, need not have gone unchallenged by practitioners of other crafts. We may compare Hesiod's attitude with the later remark by Socrates that craftsmen, like poets, erroneously believe that they have knowledge in other fields once they have mastered their own (Pl. Ap. 22d4–e1). Professionals of all kinds, including poets, appear to have worked in a market for skill, in which they attempted to promote their own form of expertise over and above the other services on offer.
The poet must work to develop his poem. As in the Odyssey, Hesiod places poets among a list of practitioners of occupations:
And potter strives with potter, carpenter with carpenter; and beggar envies beggar and minstrel envies minstrel.
(Op. 24–5)Here, in juxtaposing four specific crafts, Hesiod introduces the dominant theme of his poem: the need for work. Though all four occupations are different, they have a common purpose in providing the means of living to their respective practitioners. In each area of human endeavour good strife encourages work, as specialists compete with their rivals. Solon echoes this need for work by characterising poetry as one of the possible occupations by which a man may strive to avoid poverty (σπεύδει δ’ ἄλλοθεν ἄλλος, fr. 13.43). The common term ‘servant of the Muses’ eloquently testifies to the poet's devotion both to the god and to the practice of his art.Footnote 41
At least one major element of the poet's work is travel. The author of the Hymn to Apollo, for example, presents himself as a wanderer who has come to Delos to perform and who will promote the fame of the Delian maidens in other cities (στρεφόμεσθα πόλεις εὖ ναιεταώσας, 175). Virtually every poet for whom we have any biographical information is said to have spent an extended period of time away from their homeland.Footnote 42 The exceptions are illuminating: Alcman and Tyrtaeus are not known to have produced poetry in any context other than Sparta, yet the former was believed to have been a Lydian and the latter an Athenian.Footnote 43 These traditions are probably later inventions; yet what is more significant is the overall expectation that poets should travel. Ancient authors seem to have assumed that a poet who did not travel was a foreigner to begin with.Footnote 44 This expectation is likely to have derived from the texts of the archaic poets themselves. The Theognidea, for example, seems to concern a particular city, possibly Megara in the verses by Theognis, yet lines 783–8 attest to journeys as far afield as Sicily, Euboea and Sparta. It should also be noted that this tendency to travel is found among all poets, and not merely rhapsodes or citharodes. As Bowie argues, there may be many reasons for travel other than the performance of poetry and aristocrats could also be on the move, especially when in political exile (as in the case of Alcaeus and Solon). However, travel would also ensure continual employment, as cities and patrons could only be expected to hold a limited number of festivals a year.Footnote 45 In addition, it allowed poets to reach a wider audience and develop a reputation – an explicit aim of the Chian singer in the Hymn to Apollo (166–73). Either poets travelled specifically to perform, or the work of a poet was particularly suitable for dispossessed exiles in need of a new occupation.
The poet's fees
Early poets did not see themselves as dilettantes and their work was not a casual or common pastime. Our early sources confirm that early poets, like their fifth-century counterparts, cultivated close relationships with, and composed works for, the rich and powerful and it is likely that they also received material rewards in the form of patronage in return. The gift of meat made by Odysseus to Demodocus – granted both because poets in general are worthy of honour, and in response to his song (Od. 8.475–81) – appears to presage the meal prepared for Pindar at the house of his patron (Pind. Nem. 1.19–22), and parallel the requests for clothing and coin made by Hipponax, albeit obliquely, to his divine patron Hermes.Footnote 46 Symbolic prizes are also known for victories at festivals and additional gifts may have been included, as was the case for athletes from the sixth century.Footnote 47
The evidence for payment is well known and there is not space to document it in greater detail here.Footnote 48 We may note, however, that the acquisition of wealth was an explicit aim of the early poet and not merely an occasional or unexpected benefit. Hesiod, in his discussion of the effects of good strife, says that a man who is shy of work is stimulated into action by seeing a rich man (πλούσιον, Op. 22) setting his house in order. This rivalry between neighbour and neighbour for wealth (ζηλοῖ δέ τε γείτονα γείτων | εἰς ἄφενος σπεύδοντ’, 23–4) is directly compared with professional rivalries, including that between poets. Aristocrats, as Hesiod knew well, could certainly be acquisitive: the difference is that poets seek to gain wealth through a skill specific to them. Solon similarly characterises humanity as perpetually optimistic and always in expectation of something better:
If someone is without means and if the effects of poverty oppress him, he thinks
that he will certainly acquire much wealth.
(fr. 13.41–2)Like Hesiod, he then proceeds with a catalogue of workers, including poets, who seek to improve their lot by applying their industry to different tasks and occupations. In the case of the smith, Solon explicitly states that he earns a living from his craft (ξυλλέγεται βίοτον, 50). The following couplet (51–2), which mentions the poet, lacks a verb and it is assumed by most commentators that the action of gathering a livelihood (ξυλλέγεται βίοτον) is performed by both craftsman and poet.Footnote 49 Solon, at any rate, explicitly asks for fortune in general (ὄλβον μοι πρὸς θεῶν μακάρων δότε, 3), and specifically material wealth that is justly gained and does not bring retribution on its possessor (χρήματα δ’ ἱμείρω μὲν ἔχειν, 7). He does not have an explicit plan for gaining wealth, since he recognises that the outcome of all such projects is in the lap of the gods, yet it is clear that work as a poet is one possible way to attempt to earn a living.
While Gentili and Bowie accept that poets might happily receive rewards, they argue that Hesiod and Solon's characterisation of the professional poet does not apply to the authors of our surviving poems and fragments.Footnote 50 The first objection is that archaic poets were wealthy aristocrats of the same social and economic status as their audiences, and therefore did not need to work for a living. Gentili focuses on Solon as the prime example of a poet who operated ‘in conditions of complete economic independence’.Footnote 51 This argument is suspect for several reasons. First, it fails to question how this wealth was acquired. If, as Hesiod and Solon indicate, one of the objectives of a professional career was to accumulate wealth, we need not be surprised if the most successful poets, like many modern professionals, were also very rich. Furthermore, unlike Solon, these scholars have too rarely noted the fact that ‘there is no set end to wealth for men’ (πλούτου δ’ οὐδὲν τέρμα πεφασμένον ἀνδράσι κεῖται, fr. 13.71). The poor need not have been the only ones attracted to professional work (indeed the need for prolonged training might seem to preclude the indigent from embarking on such a career), nor is it likely that a poet would cease to apply himself to his work once he became successful. Both the desire and need for wealth, as long as it is acquired justly, are strongly articulated by Solon and in the Theognidea.Footnote 52 The mere possession of wealth should not, therefore, exclude the possibility of professionalism.
Another problem is that – aside from the ‘aristocratic’ values articulated in their poetry – the idea of the archaic poet as a gentleman of leisure is founded on surprisingly little evidence. In fact poets tend to present themselves precisely in Solonian terms as poor men who hope and deserve to become rich through their knowledge and skills. In Solon's case, the author of the Athenian Constitution notes that, according to most sources, he belonged in terms of his wealth, though not his family or reputation, to the ‘middle classes’.Footnote 53 Plutarch quotes fr. 15 as evidence that Solon belonged to the class of the poor rather than the rich (πενήτων μερίδι μᾶλλον ἢ τῇ τῶν πλουσίων, Sol. 3.2). He further explains Solon's poverty as deriving from his father's mismanagement of his estate (2.1 = Hermippus 1026 F 14 FGrHist). Hornblower dismisses this ‘explicit and modern-sounding story’ as little more than ‘an inference from Solon's own poetry’.Footnote 54 The story itself is probably a late invention, while Solon's office of archon and his own property qualifications may make us suspect that he was exaggerating the modesty of his means for rhetorical effect. Nevertheless, the key point is not whether Solon was actually poor (something we cannot accurately determine), but how he chooses to present himself in his own poetry. Hornblower's insistence on Solon's aristocratic roots misses the crucial fact that Solon decided not to characterise himself as a rich man.
A claim to poverty (feigned or otherwise) seems to have been part of a strategy by which the poet asserted his identity as a member of a moral aristocracy. Entry to this elite depended not on wealth (the poet claims to have none) but on worth. In doing so, the poet appears to exploit two assumptions: first, that real quality is not connected to money (and therefore that good men can be, and even tend to be, poor, cf. Ar. Plut. 502–4); second, that despite their poverty good men deserve wealth and that their patrons should seek to remedy the injustice that has led to their poverty. Thus archaic poets in general never boast of riches, but frequently complain of a lack of funds. Hesiod's father was not a wealthy aristocrat but an indigent fugitive who had the misfortune to find himself in Ascra (Op. 635–40). According to Critias, Archilochus claimed in his own poetry to have left Paros for Thasos through want of a livelihood.Footnote 55 Alcaeus indicated that he had been forced to leave the possessions of his father and grandfather behind during his exile (fr. 130b.23–4 Voigt). Hipponax seems to have cultivated the image of the ‘lower-class’ poet of iambos, complaining that ‘wealth is blind’.Footnote 56 The Theognidea bemoans the evils of poverty.Footnote 57 Theognis, or another contributor to the corpus, indicates that he has lost his former wealth or, specifically, that it has been taken away from him by force (341–50, 667–82, 1197–1202). West saw Theognis as an aristocrat suffering unexpected misfortune.Footnote 58 And yet this image closely corresponds to Solon's description (fr. 13.41–3) of the man who, upon finding himself without means, turns to the gifts of the Muses, among other occupations, in order to improve his situation. Not all poets’ fortunes need have conformed exactly to this model in reality, yet its frequent reappearance in surviving texts suggests that it formed a prominent part of the idea of the poet.
A common explanation for the poverty of the poet is that the aristocratic class as a whole is in decline.Footnote 59 Yet, while Theognis is poor, his addressee is rich. The poet tells his pupil not to look down on him because of his reduced means:
Do not ever be angry with me, a man, for my heart-wrenching poverty, nor cast in my teeth dire want.
(Thgn. 155–6)Footnote 60Who is the person addressed? The passage comes from the Florilegium Purum (27–236), which contains relatively few known excerpts from the works of other poets and a high proportion of addresses to Cyrnus. There is thus a strong possibility that these lines are by Theognis and, if so, perhaps directed at Cyrnus. Elsewhere, the advice Cyrnus receives is appropriate for a wealthy young nobleman. Theognis no longer possesses an estate, but he does offer Cyrnus advice on how to manage his labourers and servants (301–2).
Complaints about poverty might have two effects: first, they both explain and justify the poet's presence as companion and tutor to those who are financially his superiors, and, second, they may gently prompt a patron to recognise the poet's entitlement to financial rewards. Such an approach – part of what Martin has termed the ‘poetic strategies of wandering poets’ – is paralleled in later poetry.Footnote 61 Pindar's hyporcheme to Hieron (fr. 105b S–M), which contains the image of a poor Scythian bereft of a wagon, is adapted by the mercenary poet of Aristophanes’ Birds (941–4) as the basis of a request for payment. Ancient scholars believed that Pindar's original had a similar purpose.Footnote 62
The final argument for the leisured aristocratic poet is his frequent association with the wealthy. The symposium, a common venue for the performance of poetry, is often viewed as an entirely aristocratic institution and the presence of the poet is thought to demonstrate his credentials as a member of the elite.Footnote 63 Moreover, poets, when abroad at the houses of foreign aristocrats, are entitled to sustenance as strangers (ξένοι) and present themselves more often as recipients of hospitality than patronage. Scholars have tended to draw a sharp distinction between hospitality, implying the reciprocal exchange of gifts, and the commercial exchange of rewards for services.Footnote 64 Thus Bowie, in ruling out professionalism among early poets, characterises the travels of Ibycus as ‘visits to aristocratic houses … in which his primary status was that of a ξένος’.Footnote 65
However, it is possible for the distinction between ξενία and commercial exchange to become blurred, since professional poets may claim the status of strangers in order to disguise or justify their fees as hospitality. This was certainly the case with Pindar. He describes his association with Thorax, the man who commissioned his tenth Pythian, in precisely the terms of reciprocal exchange (πέποιθα ξενίᾳ, Pyth. 10.64).Footnote 66 Wealthy athletic victors are praised for welcoming strangers, including poets, to their houses.Footnote 67 Yet Pindar also terms what he receives as ‘payment’ (μισθός).Footnote 68 The poet may thus claim that the payment he receives is a form of hospitality. In doing so, the poet again stresses that the relationship is reciprocal and that he is not primarily motivated by greed. We do not know whether the same was true in the case of Ibycus (to use Bowie's example), yet the example of Pindar means that we should be wary of using Ibycus’ position as a stranger to rule out professionalism.
Moreover, since aristocratic houses routinely attracted recipients of patronage in general, the mere presence of the poet at such houses complements rather than contradicts the image of the professional poet. Hired entertainers, particularly aulos-players, were an essential part of the symposium. In addition, feasts were an obvious source of food for those in need. Hesiod's brother Perses runs the risk of having to talk his neighbours into a meal, an ultimately fruitless endeavour (ἀχρεῖος δ’ ἔσται ἐπέων νομός, Op. 403). Perses exemplifies the parasitic flatterer (κόλαξ or παράσιτος), who tries to gain a living through his skill at words. The word κόλαξ is first used in the sixth century by Asius of Samos (fr. 14 West), who describes a flatterer drawn by the smell of roasted meat (κνισοκόλαξ) as a wandering beggar who is not invited (ἄκλητος) but comes anyway in order to be given food. He provides nothing in return except for his unwanted chatter. The poet, in gaining a meal in return for praise, can come uncomfortably close to resembling the κόλαξ if he fails to benefit his audience. The tragic poet Acestor, who is satirised in Eupolis’ Kolakes (fr. 172.14 K–A) as an unsuccessful parasite, is thrown out of a dinner party for making an ill-chosen joke. Lazy poets are fed by the Clouds in Aristophanes because they flatter their ethereal patrons (Nub. 331–4). It should not surprise us then that Hesiod ranks poets alongside beggars as examples of men driven by good strife (Op. 26). Poets were not beggars or necessarily of low status; yet because they received fees there was always the possibility that they could be perceived as such.
Justifying patronage: a service orientation?
How did poets justify the rewards and hospitality they received and, in the process, differentiate themselves from mere flatterers? Poets stressed that they, unlike flatterers, benefited their patrons with their skill: what sociologists have termed a ‘service orientation’.Footnote 69 Their membership of the elite thus depends more on what they can offer in return for patronage than on wealth.
Poets do not merely ask for pay or complain of their lot, but stress that their poverty is undeserved. The poet of the Theognidea complains that he is poor despite his understanding of excellence (ἀρετή):
You [sc. poverty] teach me by force, unwilling as I am, many shameful things, though I understand the good and fine things among men.
(Thgn. 650–1)Those who have wealth do not have the same knowledge (πολλοὶ πλοῦτον ἔχουσιν ἀίδριες, Thgn. 683). Solon similarly contrasts those who are rich and worthless with those, such as himself, who are poor yet have excellence (ἀρετή, fr. 15 = Thgn. 315–18). Xenophanes is more specific, stressing that athletes receive material rewards but do not deserve them as much as he does (οὐκ ἐὼν ἄξιος ὥσπερ ἐγώ, fr. 2.10) on account of his wisdom (ἡμετέρη σοφίη, 12). Sappho may perhaps have made a not dissimilar comparison in her description of an uncultured woman who will die unremembered (fr. 55 Voigt) because she ‘has no share in the roses of Pieria’ (οὐ γὰρ πεδέχῃς βρόδων | τὼν ἐκ Πιερίας, 2–3). According to Plutarch, this fragment was addressed to a rich lady.Footnote 70 Sappho here appears to have explicitly contrasted skill in poetry, which grants undying fame, with temporary wealth. In each of these cases, therefore, poets appear to alert their audience to an injustice: others have more wealth, yet do not deserve it as a poet does. Poets, however, possess something more valuable, though less tangible: knowledge and understanding. If a patron knows what is good for him, he will recognise the poet's true value underneath his relative poverty.
The benefit a poet or entertainer bestows may be felt most immediately by his host. In Xenophon's Symposium, the comic Philip knows that he is invited to dinner only because he is funny and that if he ceases to amuse, he will cease to be invited.Footnote 71 No one expects to receive an invitation from him in return. Equally, in Homer singers partake of the meal along with other guests because of their song. Unlike flatterers, poets are not only invited, but are invited for the specific reason that they are ‘workers for the people’ (δημιοεργοί) who have a particular skill that is in demand. Penelope implies that heralds are fed like strangers and suppliants, but unlike them heralds belong to a special category as δημιοεργοί (Od. 19.130–5), which may form the basis of their request for sustenance. If poets, whom Eumaeus also describes as δημιοεργοί, can demonstrate a similarly beneficial skill, the relationship between patron and poet becomes reciprocal, even though it is a song, and not the promise of future hospitality, that the poet offers in return.
Poets also advertise their usefulness to the state as political advisors. As Martin has shown in the case of Solon, a performer's identity as a poet may be as important in determining his intervention in politics as his adherence to any political programme or class.Footnote 72 In particular, an allusion to professional status may afford the poet certain distinct advantages in the city: it allows him, first, to lay claim to special political wisdom in an effort to persuade the citizens and, second, to present himself as a disinterested mediator between the aggrieved parties.
The ability of the poet to promote good behaviour is alluded to in the Odyssey, where Agamemnon entrusts his wife to a singer (3.267–8). His removal to a deserted island allows Aegisthus to take power and opens the way for Agamemnon's murder. Xenophanes’ σοφίη is particularly valuable, since it helps further good government (εὐνομίη, fr. 2.19). Tyrtaeus similarly composed a work on the subject of εὐνομία (fr. 1 West), which later authors interpreted as part of a successful attempt to end civil strife in Sparta.Footnote 73 The Athenian Lycurgus (1.106–7) mentioned a tradition that the Spartans selected Tyrtaeus as general, but noted that his achievement was in teaching the Spartans to be brave through his poetry, rather than any skill as a soldier or statesman. This echoes the belief of the ghost of Euripides in Aristophanes’ Frogs that poets are admired for their ability to make men better in cities.Footnote 74 The political value of the poet's τέχνη is recognised by Protagoras in Plato's dialogue.Footnote 75 He defines Homer, Hesiod and Simonides as early practitioners of what he terms sophistic skill (τὴν σοφιστικὴν τέχνην, Prt. 316d2) and which Socrates more narrowly defines as a political skill. Once again, this has the same purpose of making men better citizens.
The poet can thus be presented less as a politician in his own city, and more as a political advisor brought in from abroad, who is maintained by cities and rulers because of his wholesome and impartial counsel. The resolution of civil strife in Sparta was credited to the legendary poets Thaletas and Terpander.Footnote 76 Stesichorus is said to have offered political advice not only to his fellow citizens of Himera, but also to those of Locri.Footnote 77 Solon appears as the wise advisor both in his own poetry and the later biographical tradition. A poem composed in honour of Philocyprus and ascribed to Solon appears to have been responsible for the tradition that he advised the king to transfer his seat to a better location.Footnote 78 It is conceivable that Solon may have had in mind this idea of the poet as travelling wise man when he sought to present himself as a neutral mediator in his own city of Athens.
Professional and amateur poets?
Any change in the production of poetry in the sixth century may have been less noticeable than scholars have tended to admit. Poets of the archaic period seem at times to have alluded to a professional identity, according to which they appear as knowledgeable practitioners of a specialist skill that is of value to the community. We now need to ask whether the texts differentiate in any way between professional and amateur poets. Were performers in particular genres (especially rhapsodes) more likely to present themselves as professionals than those in other genres (such as lyric monody)?
Performances by amateurs, either in choruses or the symposium, are well documented, but there is no explicit evidence for an amateur poet. In order to maintain the notion of the late rise of professionalism, Gentili and Bowie have had to characterise the Homeric aoidoi and the rhapsodes, who are often believed to be their historical successors, as early exceptions. Yet this distinction is unjustified. There is no indication of the existence of more than one type of poet in epic and we cannot assume that the Homeridae, or even rhapsodes in general, were the only performers to identify with their mythical predecessors. The description of the Homeric poet does not exactly correspond to any one type of performer, especially not the rhapsode, who recited verses unaccompanied by the lyre; rather it presents a general ideal of the poet to which later performers could aspire.Footnote 79 The closest parallel is in fact the citharodes, who were believed to have set Homer's poetry to music at an early stage.Footnote 80 The Greeks distinguished between different forms of poetry, particularly monodic and choral, according to the contest for which they were produced, but not different forms of poet.Footnote 81 Outside the categories of contests, there is little to distinguish poets: Herodotus (1.23) calls Arion both a citharode and the inventor of the dithyramb; Xenophanes, the critic of Homer, apparently recited his poetry in the manner of a rhapsode (Diog. Laert. 9.18), while the work of Stesichorus is notoriously hard to classify.Footnote 82 The social background and wealth of individuals will certainly have varied, but there is no evidence for the amateur poet as a recognisably distinct class of performer.
Although Solon testifies to the existence of professional poets, recent commentators have attempted to argue that we should not include him among them.Footnote 83 In doing so, they are following the view of Gentili, who claims that Solon in fragment 13 only refers to professional rhapsodes. The prosperity Solon asks for from the Muses (ὄλβον μοι πρὸς θεῶν μακάρων δότε, 13.3) is ‘fairly clearly landed wealth’ appropriate to aristocrats, rather than money earned as a poet.Footnote 84 If correct, this would be the only instance in which a poet distinguishes himself from his professional contemporaries. Yet Solon does not explicitly make any such distinction. Plutarch believed that Solon's fortune was made in trade (ἐμπορία, Sol. 2.1) and not land: if Solon the trader is a creation of the ancient biographical tradition, Solon the landed gentleman is no less the product of the modern imagination.
Rather the text, and specifically the address to the Muses, suggests that Solon is making his appeal in the capacity of a poet. We may compare Hesiod's claim that those shown favour by the Muses prosper (ὁ δ’ ὄλβιος, ὅντινα Μοῦσαι | φίλωνται, Theog. 96–7), which directly follows the statement that singers and citharists come from the Muses and Apollo (ἐκ γάρ τοι Μουσέων καὶ ἑκηβόλου Ἀπόλλωνος | ἄνδρες ἀοιδοὶ ἔασιν, 94–5). It is unlikely that Solon would wish to dissociate himself from those who have received gifts from the very goddesses to whom his prayer is addressed. If Solon makes a distinction between himself and other professionals it is in the superiority of his personal wisdom, since he, unlike his rivals, recognises the limitations of τέχνη and that wealth, when obtainable, can only be earned justly.
The only positive evidence for the early amateur poet is the belief of ancient writers that Simonides was the first poet to charge fees. The claim is reported in the scholia on the second Isthmian and Aristophanes’ Peace and is repeated by the Suda.Footnote 85 However, the earlier works quoted as evidence by the scholia only suggest that Simonides was grasping and do not specifically name him as the first mercenary poet.Footnote 86 Xenophanes, we are told, called Simonides ‘a miser’ (κίμβιξ).Footnote 87 Although Xenophanes’ poem shows that the tradition of Simonides’ greed dates from an early period, it does not suggest that this was a new development. No other early source supports the contention of later scholars. The joke in Peace (697) that Sophocles is turning into Simonides is ambiguous and need only refer to the reputation for avarice found in Xenophanes. Aristotle provides an anecdote, in which Simonides claimed that the wise in general frequented the doors of the rich.Footnote 88 This suggests that as late as the fourth century Simonides was still seen as merely the best example of the sage maintained by patronage, rather than the first professional.
Pindar's second Isthmian is the only source quoted by the scholion on Peace to mention specifically a change in the behaviour of poets. Pindar recalls the men of old (οἱ μὲν πάλαι, Isthm. 2.1) who addressed their poems to boys at a time when the Muse was not then a hireling. This golden age acts as a foil for the present era. Both the scholion on Pindar's second Isthmian and the scholion on Aristophanes’ Peace assume that the passage refers to a recent change brought about by Simonides. Yet Pindar is, perhaps deliberately, vague and may not have a specific or recent development in mind. There is nothing in the text to suggest an allusion to Simonides, beyond the tradition of that poet's greed, and modern commentators have rightly been sceptical of this interpretation.Footnote 89 It is Pindar's Muse who is greedy, and no other contemporary poet is mentioned.
The Pindaric scholia suggest that the early poets alluded to in the opening line are Alcaeus, Ibycus, Anacreon and their contemporaries.Footnote 90 Again there is nothing in the text, beyond the fact that all of these men composed love poetry, to tie Pindar's image of the early poets directly to specific individuals. Pindar characterises these poets as pederasts in order to demonstrate that they are disinterested and he may have the overall genre in mind rather than any particular early poets or poetic school. As Nicholson has shown, Pindar frequently appeals to the image of the pederastic lover and instructor of youth in order to ‘obscure the poet's status as a … wage-earner’, much as he employs the status of the poet as the patron's guest for the same purpose.Footnote 91 Ibycus may have adopted the same tactic in praising the beauty of Polycrates (S151.46–8 PMGF).
When we come to compare the careers of Ibycus and Anacreon with those of Simonides and Pindar there appear to be more similarities than differences. All four are known to have composed works for multiple rulers and aristocrats. Both Anacreon and Simonides were guests of the Pisistratids in Athens. The pseudo-Platonic dialogue Hipparchus explicitly claims that the tyrant promised Simonides a substantial fee (μεγάλοις μισθοῖς καὶ δώροις πείθων, 228b–c). Bowie notes that ‘no such claim is made for Anacreon’, and yet the activities of the two poets are notably similar.Footnote 92 Before arriving at Athens, Anacreon was the guest of Polycrates, whose name, according to Strabo (14.1.16 = fr. 483 PMG), appeared frequently in his works. An even earlier precedent is provided by Solon, who allegedly wrote flattering elegies addressed to his host on Cyprus, the tyrant Philocyprus, on the occasion of the foundation of his city.Footnote 93 The same pattern appears in the works of Pindar and Bacchylides, who praised not only a tyrant, Hieron, but also, like Solon, the foundation of a new city at Aetna.Footnote 94
Finally, the second Isthmian does not demonstrate a new attitude to money. Pindar alludes to earlier poetry in order to justify his views. He ascribes the doctrine of the mercenary Muse that ‘money is man’ to the Spartan Aristodamus.Footnote 95 The same maxim was quoted by Alcaeus.Footnote 96 A scholion also quotes Anacreon: ‘Persuasion did not yet shine with silver then.’Footnote 97 Anacreon, in the generation before Pindar, similarly appeals to an ideal past, uncorrupted by the desire for precious metal. Both poets admit to living in a world where money transactions are common and even necessary, yet are eager to show that they do not approve of this situation. According to Pausanias it was Homer who cared little for the money of tyrants (χρήματα παρὰ τῶν δυναστῶν, 1.2.3), unlike later poets including Anacreon. The myth of the original disinterested poet and the idea of change are revived in successive generations because, ironically, both the need for money and the prejudices against commerce remain constant.Footnote 98
Conclusion
We have tended to characterise the period from the seventh to the early fifth century as a time of fundamental change, in which the aristocratic amateur was gradually replaced by the professional. Yet there is little evidence for a major transformation in the self-presentation of poets. Throughout this period, poets appear to build relationships with their audience and patrons based upon their status as members a recognised professional group, set apart in society. They gain entry to the city and to the gatherings of its elite as equals not on the basis of their wealth (for they purport to have none), but more commonly because of valuable specialist skills. They thus appear at the houses of the rich and powerful both as guests and as performers who have the potential to benefit their patrons in return for hospitality. Their right to certain privileges, including honours and material rewards, is therefore always potentially open to question. In order to assert his claim, the poet must continually demonstrate his skill, and the benefits it brings society, through performance. The professional cannot therefore be said to belong exclusively to one social class, since his self-identification as an elite member may depend partly or entirely on his success as a poet. As Finley put it in his discussion of the δημιοεργοί of the Odyssey, professional poets ‘floated in mid-air in the social hierarchy’.Footnote 99
